


Blue

by CommonNonsense



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 05:04:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10757268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: McCree's just as surprised as anyone else when he starts coughing up small, delicate blue petals. But it's easy to guess why it happens--there's only one thing in this world to cause someone to start producing flowers from their lungs, and the way things are, his prognosis isn't good.





	Blue

**Author's Note:**

> I promise it's a happy ending. I would never write angst without it.

“You need to be seen,” Hanzo insists. He crosses his arms in that way that means he will have his way, however he needs to make it happen. 

McCree clears his throat, but the urge to cough still remains, as it has for the past two days. Still, he puts on his cockiest smile. “Worried about me, darlin’?” he asks sweetly. 

Hanzo’s stony expression does not change. “You are obviously becoming ill,” he says. “You were coughing all throughout this morning’s training, were visibly exhausted after exercise that you can usually handle, and you gave away our position. You are going to get yourself killed if you do not get treated and insist on doing things you are not fit for.”

“I think that might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Hanzo looks up at the ceiling, eyes closed. McCree can’t decide if he’s thinking or praying for patience. 

“McCree,” Hanzo says, and this time his voice is softer, beseeching, “please go see Dr. Ziegler. Your stubbornness is helping no one, especially yourself.”

McCree almost says no again. Because yes, his chest has been feeling a bit tight the last few days, and he’s had a dry cough that just won’t quit. But he’s fairly sure it’s a run-of-the-mill illness that should pass in its own time, and he’s never been one to let himself get laid up by a cold. As long as he’s still upright and holding a gun, he’s fit to work. 

But then Hanzo looks back at him, mouth downturned with something one might call worry on anyone else, dark eyes bracketed by lines that weren’t there before, and that pierces McCree’s heart better than any arrow. Rare are the days when he sees Hanzo so concerned, let alone about something so insignificant as mild illness. And to have that sweet, borderline caring directed at  _ him? _

Hell, it’s more than worth being a little sick.

“Alright, alright,” McCree sighs in his best put-upon voice. “I’ll go. She’s gonna say the exact same thing I told you, but if it’ll make you stop lookin’ like I just kicked your puppy, I’ll go.”

Hanzo rolls his eyes, although there is no real disdain behind it. “See that you do,” he says. He moves to walk past McCree, pausing briefly to grip his shoulder. The touch is quick, a show of brotherhood more than anything else, but it still causes McCree’s stomach to flutter. 

He resists the urge to clamp his hand down over Hanzo’s and keep him there. 

The moment passes, and Hanzo departs, satisfied for his success. McCree can still feel the phantom touch of Hanzo’s hand on his shoulder, burning through his shirt and serape like a brand. A little sad, maybe, that such a casual touch is enough to distract him so, but he’ll take what he can get. 

McCree fully intends to ask Angela to give him a clean bill of health and tell Hanzo he’s fine, but Hanzo doesn’t need to know that. 

 

\--

“Take off the serape and go sit down,” Angela says, which is not the answer McCree expected. 

“What? No, I’m fine. I just wanted you to tell Hanzo that so he’d get off my back.”

Angela points wordlessly at the exam table. He goes, but stands beside it.

“C’mon, Angie, I’m sure it’s nothing,” McCree continues to protest. “Probably a cold or somethin’. Nothin’ to get all worried about.”

Angela casts him a stern look, and he sits down on the table. 

Pleased, she smiles again as she crosses the room for the stethoscope on her desk. “You are probably right,” she says, “but it is my job to be sure, after all. A cough can be anything from a little cold to lung cancer. Given the way you smoke, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the latter, either.”

McCree rolls his eyes behind her back, though there’s no real disdain to it. Angela has given him the smoking lecture more than once, and since he doesn’t plan to give up his cigarillos until he’s six feet under, he figures she won’t give up the lectures, either. 

She’s probably right, though. He hasn’t exactly treated his body like a temple in the twenty or so years. It wouldn’t be a surprise if that was starting to catch up with him. Maybe he should consider a few changes--a better diet, more water and less whiskey, exercise outside of the minimum that Overwatch requires . . .

He jumps at the icy touch of the stethoscope against his back, freezing even through his shirt. “Christ,” he says. “You can heal someone with a goddamn staff in the field, but you still can’t warm that thing up?”

Angela laughs softly. “Sorry. It’s the one thing that still eludes me. Breathe deeply, please.”

McCree does as directed, looking up at the ceiling. His lungs feel like they’re protesting, a bit resistant to him taking a full breath, and he can feel the tickle of another cough coming on. He swallows it down, willing his body to wait until the exam is done.

After a moment, Angela switches the stethoscope to his chest, spends a moment listening to his heart, and straightens. “Well,” she says, looping her stethoscope behind her neck, “it sounds alright, for the most part. A little congested, perhaps, but nothing I would count as serious for now.”

“So the lung cancer spiel was just a scare tactic.”

“Well, for now. But I keep telling you--”

McCree doesn’t hear what Angela says as the cough finally overtakes him. He all but doubles over, hacking into his hands. It feels like ages before his throat clears and the spasms cease, and when they finally do, he lets out a soft groan. 

“Goodness,” says Angela. “Are you alright? Would you like some cough medicine? I can prescribe--”

She cuts herself off. McCree opens his eyes to look at her, but she is looking down, her eyes wide and her lips parted around whatever she was going to say next. He follows her gaze down.

His hands are full of flower petals: small, blue petals, scattered in his palms, flecked here and there with his spittle. There are only a few, perhaps half a dozen, but they are more than enough for alarm--and for a diagnosis.

“Oh,” he says. “Well, that explains it.”

There’s a long moment of silence. McCree stares at the petals, and senses Angela is doing the same. 

“Oh, no,” Angela murmurs. She rests a hand on his knee. “Oh, Jesse. Who is it?”

McCree swallows hard. The name rests on the tip of his tongue, but he hesitates to admit it. “I don’t--” he starts, then shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about that. It’s bad enough that it’s--this.”

Angela nods, though she looks unsatisfied with the answer. “I suppose it doesn’t matter,” she says. “How long?”

“Just now, apparently.”

“Don’t be smart. It’s important that I know so I can monitor--”

“I mean it!” McCree snaps, and immediately regrets his tone. He sighs, gently ruffling the petals in his hands. “This is the first time. I’ve sort of been--not thinking about it. I really did think I was just getting sick.”

Angela hesitates. Her fingers drum a short beat against his knee. “Jesse,” she begins carefully, “you know how this will--”

“Yeah, I’m pretty well aware,” McCree interrupts. He carefully transfers all the petals to one hand, wary of crushing them. He feels rather numb, considering the news. Maybe it will hit him later. “Everyone knows.”

 

\--

 

Angela makes him promise that he’ll consider the treatment before she lets him leave the med bay. He says he will, but has no idea himself if he means it or not. He does mean his promise to come back tomorrow for further evaluation, though the last thing he really wants to know is how far gone he is.

In the privacy of his dorm, McCree lays out the petals on top of his bed. The individual petals are soft wedge shapes a bit smaller than his thumbnail, cerulean in color, some of them fading to indigo near their outer edges. Most of them are separated petals, but there is half of a flower still intact, only partially damaged by the trip through his trachea. McCree picks it out of the bunch and enlists Athena’s help in identifying it. 

It doesn’t take long. The flowers are blue hydrangeas, a plant originating from east Asia, though they are fairly widespread now. Fitting, McCree supposes. There are rumors that Hanahaki’s flowers are supposed to represent the person for whom they bloomed, but he’s never been sure. He’s never seen it before--definitely never expected to get it himself. 

The thing is, although McCree knew exactly who this was for, he hadn’t expected it to become  _ this _ . This thing. He’s spent the last couple of months ignoring it as much as possible--difficult though that was, considering he spent so much time around the object of his affection--because he didn’t want to deal with it. He  _ refused _ to deal with it. His life doesn’t leave a lot of room for true romantic entanglements, even with the relative stability of Overwatch. And that’s assuming he even had a chance, which he’s 95% sure that he doesn’t.

He’s not normally one to sit on this kind of thing, but he made his choices and he had his reasons. Besides, he had no reason to believe this would really work out, so why bother?

Either way, he’s either got to get extremely lucky in the next few weeks and find out Hanzo Shimada secretly cares for him, or slowly choke to death on the evidence of his own unrequited love. 

What a pathetic way to go.

There’s a knock on the door. McCree realizes he’s been staring down at the flower petals on his bed for close to a minute. Scowling at himself, he gets to his feet to answer the door, hoping whoever it is wants nothing of consequence and will quickly leave him alone again.

To his surprise, Hanzo is the one standing on the other side. As it always does, McCree’s heart gives a joyful leap at the mere sight of the man. He smiles without meaning to, and barely manages to restrain it from being a stupid, lovesick grin.

God, it’s no wonder being in love made him sick, is it? When just looking at Hanzo can affect him this badly?

Hanzo is carrying a small tray, with a plate of food and a cup of what looks like tea. He smiles softly up at McCree. “McCree,” he says in way of greeting. “You missed dinner.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”

“What did Dr. Ziegler say? Are you well?”

“Just a cold. Angie says I’ll be right as rain in a couple days.” McCree can feel the urge to cough again even as he lies. He wonders if it’s because of the warmth that’s swelling in his chest from the realization that Hanzo has been watching him, monitoring his health, and is concerned enough to check on him. 

Of course he is. They’re friends, after all. McCree wishes that was enough.

Hanzo doesn’t look completely convinced, but he says nothing else. He offers up the tray. “I brought you dinner,” he explains. “And a cup of tea. I realize that it doesn’t pair with spaghetti, but I thought it might be more soothing.”

“Thanks, Hanzo.” McCree reaches for the tray, but has to stop and cover his mouth to cough again. Hanzo looks on in concern until McCree stops. McCree clenches his fist around the petals he knows he’s coughed up and hopes none of them escaped.

“Thanks,” he says again, taking the tray and casting a furtive glance at the floor. No flowers, thank god. It is way too early on to deal with the consequences of Hanzo finding out. 

Hanzo’s expression is uncharacteristically soft, worried. “Of course,” he says. “Feel better, McCree.”

“I’ll do my best. See you later, Hanzo.”

McCree dumps the lot of flowers into the trash can next to his bed, which he’ll empty later when there’s nobody around to see. He drinks the tea, because Hanzo made it, and trashes the spaghetti without touching it. Then he grabs a fresh bottle from the desk, drinks two glasses of whiskey one after the other, and goes to bed.

 

\--

 

When he first met Hanzo, he hadn’t even liked him all that much. 

He had done his best to be polite, because Genji asked him to. He was suspicious of Hanzo’s intentions--because he had been there, when Genji first arrived, when Genji had first been hovered in on Angela’s stretcher and then spent months in debilitating physical therapy--but he kept it to himself. 

Besides, it wasn’t like his own past was so clean, so who was he to judge, really?

They hadn’t run the same circles, initially--Hanzo was clustered with the other newer recruits for a month or so, and McCree spent a lot of time off the base, so they hadn’t seen much of each other until their trainings started to intersect. McCree wasn’t terribly interested in making friends, either, but he made one quip about Hanzo’s shooting abilities, and then he tried to flirt, and Hanzo had rolled his eyes but laughed nonetheless . . .

After a couple weeks, he wasn’t surprised that he liked Hanzo a bit more than casually. He hadn’t minded that. Hanzo was sharp as a tack, delightfully dry-humored and quick-witted, and more than talented enough to live up to Genji’s stories. If McCree was a little sweeter on him than on anyone else, well, that was his own business, his own private crush to nurture. He wasn’t normally one to hesitate on something like this, true, but there were a good handful of reasons not to pursue anything--the Recall and everything it entailed, his own not-insignificant issues, and the simple fact that though Hanzo laughed at his flirting, he never responded to it. So McCree left it alone, and enjoyed that little burst of warmth in his belly every time he saw Hanzo.

And then it got a little worse. A month turned into two and they started talking,  _ really _ talking, finding they had much more in common than McCree had initially thought possible. The moment McCree had noticed that a silly crush was becoming slightly more, he had shoved it down, locked it into a box in the back of his mind, and did his best to ignore it. Hanzo didn’t want it and there was too much going on. It was fine. A little painful, but fine.

Last time he’d really looked at it, he definitely didn’t think it had been  _ love, _ although now that he’s looking back on it, he wonders how he ever thought it was anything but. 

 

\--

 

The next morning, before he gets out of bed, McCree grabs his phone and does his own research on Hanahaki disease.

It’s not a well-understood disease overall. He suspects even if he went to ask Angela, she wouldn’t be able to tell him everything. It’s a bizarre affliction, and nobody’s entirely sure how it manifests or why. It’s hard to find out what makes someone cough up flowers.

What is known is that it stems from deep, unreturned love--the kind that causes heartbreak, if it hasn’t already. That was part of what made it relatively rare. Most people weren’t so unlucky as to be that deeply in love with someone who didn’t love them back. 

The real kicker is that if left untreated, Hanahaki is deadly. And treatment consisted of either two things: getting the target of their affection to love them back, or surgically removing the center of the disease, cutting out the diseased tissue around the heart and the lungs--and the feelings themselves. 

Many people don’t choose the surgery at all, and when they do, usually only when it is nearly too late. McCree doesn’t know whether he’ll be able to do anything about it, himself.

But that’s not for some time. At least, he hopes so. 

He slogs off to another appointment with Angela, now that he’s feeling a little more capable of handling it. He sits through a chest scan, waits for Angela to read the results, tries not to think too hard about the prognosis. 

“Well,” Angela says, finally swiping aside the holographic read-out of the scan, “It’s still early on, like you said. Still very treatable, if you choose to do the surgery, or if you can tell the other person.”

McCree huffs a dry, unhappy laugh. “Even if I told him, I doubt it’d make a difference,” he says.

“Him?” Angela searches his face for a moment. 

McCree swallows hard. Yesterday, he declined to say, but Angela’s going to find out either way during one of what will probably be many appointments with her. “Hanzo. It’s Hanzo.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“So he still does not know?”

“Of course he doesn’t. What, you think  _ he’s _ going to be thrilled that I’m--” McCree stumbles over the words, chokes as they catch in his throat. “Shit. I don’t even know how it got this bad. It’s not like we’re . . .  _ anything _ .”

Angela reaches out to pet his hand. “I know,” she says. “It’s not easy. It never is.”

 

\--

 

“McCree!” Hanzo calls from somewhere behind. McCree turns, though part of him says he should just keep moving instead of worsening things for himself. 

“Hey,” he says, and damn it, there’s that warm feeling in his chest again. Hanzo looks pleased to see him, smiling warmly.

“Genji and I were on our way to the arena,” Hanzo says, gesturing behind him. Genji is a few feet back, waiting patiently. “Would you like to join us?”

“Why? So I can outshoot you both?”

Hanzo smirks. It sends a little thrill through McCree’s gut, one that he forces himself to ignore. “I would like to see you try,” Hanzo says.

“You’re on.”

He manages to make it through most of the first few simulations in one piece. He, Hanzo, and Genji all take turns going up against each other, either fighting to take fictional objectives or shooting bots for points. It’s fun, challenging, something to occupy McCree’s mind. 

When he bows out of his last session and lets Hanzo and Genji take over for another, McCree leans against the wall and watches the screens. He means to watch them both fight, but his gaze inevitably focuses on Hanzo alone. It’s always a treat to watch Hanzo fight, to watch his lithe form and his graceful movements, but there’s more to it today. 

This is one of the places where he might actually see Hanzo relaxed. Happy. When training properly, Hanzo is always focused, but here, with his brother and a friend and nobody else, he seems to let himself enjoy the thrill of a low-stakes fight and putting his skills to the test. McCree secretly loves to watch Hanzo like this, to see him smiling and laughing, bantering playfully, taking playful insults in stride.  He likes it even better when he’s the one to make Hanzo act this way.

McCree feels the tickle of another cough only a moment before it comes. He turns away from the arena, wary of the chance of the brothers passing by.

There are more petals this time, maybe a dozen, and a couple of full flowers. McCree winces and gathers them up as quickly as he can, though one or two have escaped his hands and drifted to the floor. He crumples them up and shoves them into his pockets just before he hears a pair of light, metal-clad footsteps.

“McCree, are you alright?” Genji asks, stopping in front of McCree. McCree freezes and has to force himself to relax.

“Just fine,” he says, straightening up. “Bit of a cough still.”

“I thought you said you were getting better.”

“I am, but that don’t mean it’s all gone yet.” 

He can’t see Genji’s expression, but he imagines it’s suspicious. Then Genji looks down, and when McCree glances at the floor, he sees a smudge of blue. He tries to cover it with the toe of his boot, but Genji is quicker, and bends down to snatch it off the floor.

“What is this?” Genji asks, bringing the hydrangea petal up to eye level. 

McCree shrugs, feigning ignorance. “Couldn’t tell ya.”

“McCree,” Genji says warningly. 

“What? I can’t tell you how that got here. Ain’t exactly a lot of flowers hangin’ out in here.”

Genji stares at him for a long moment, the petal held up carefully between thumb and forefinger. “I hope this is not what I think it is,” he says.

“Depends on what you think it is.”

“You were coughing up a lung, and then I found a flower petal that you tried to hide from me. It is not a difficult conclusion.”

McCree sighs heavily and hangs his head, which Genji takes as answer enough. 

“So it is Hanahaki,” Genji says quietly. “Really, McCree? You?”

“What, surprised I can like someone?”

“Not that you  _ can _ . Just that you have.” Genji drops the petal into McCree’s hand, where it is then stuffed away with the others. “Can I ask who?”

“No offense, partner, but that’s somethin’ I really don’t want to talk about right now.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I haven’t decided. Just found out about it, and I’d really appreciate it if you kept it on the down-low for now. I don’t want everyone to start losing their minds.”

Genji starts to say something else, but is interrupted by Hanzo’s approach. “Genji! Did you forget we were competing?” asks Hanzo as he stops beside the two of them, bow hitched over his shoulder. 

Genji laughs. “I did. I am sorry,” he says. “McCree seemed unwell. I wanted to be sure he was alright.”

“Still?” Hanzo turns a frown McCree’s direction. “You should have said. I would not have invited you here.”

McCree forces a laugh. “Please. If this could keep me down, I wouldn’t be much of an agent. Don’t you worry about me.”

Hanzo seems unsatisfied by the answer, but he lets it go and instead says, “Well, since I beat your score, and Genji lost by default, I think I am owed a couple of drinks. I will give you the honor of the first, McCree.”

McCree can feel Genji’s gaze boring into his back as he turns to leave with Hanzo. Genji probably knows, or will soon figure out, that McCree’s dying over his brother. 

 

\--

McCree does his best to keep the whole thing under wraps. He coughs up flowers anywhere from two to six times per day, and he suspects it happens more if he spends any time around Hanzo. He quickly learns how to best contain the flowers so that he can discreetly throw them away, and insists to everyone that his cough is nothing more than a lingering cold that will fix itself eventually. Aside from Angela and Genji, nobody is any the wiser. 

He still participates in assignments and completes them as he would if he weren’t sick. It’s a little harder to breathe sometimes, and he interrupts someone once or twice on the com with his coughing, but he’s still capable. 

He doesn’t even entertain the idea of avoiding Hanzo, even if it would help. He’s going to be sick no matter what happens, so he might as well take what little enjoyment he can. 

He considers telling Hanzo, or at least trying. Ask him to dinner, perhaps, or just grab him by the shoulders and kiss him. The latter idea does have its own appeal, although it would probably end poorly. 

Still, even with the chance of his life depending on it, McCree can’t quite get himself over the hesitation. Because even if, by some stroke of luck, Hanzo had any sort of feelings for him--they couldn’t possibly be anything like this, even a fraction of what McCree has come to feel for him. 

So he waits, and keeps hiding the flowers as they appear.

 

\--

 

Angela wants to see him every week. McCree doesn’t want to spend half an hour per week mulling over his mortality, but he learns the first time he tries to skip his appointment that she will hound him for literal hours until he shows up. So he shows up, strips off his serape and shirt, and lets Angela take his vitals and run scans and sum up the condition one per week, every Thursday evening before dinner.

“Well,” Angela says, peering at the holographic display of McCree’s chest scan, “we’re at the two-week mark and you look about how I would expect you to. Are you taking the medication I gave you?”

“Every day.”

“Good. Keep it that way. Right now, that’s all we have to work with.” She dismisses the display, only to pull up another, which she spends a moment tapping through. McCree reaches for his shirt. 

After a moment, Angela sets aside the tablet. “How are you doing?” she asks. She grips each end of the stethoscope draped behind her neck and looks at him, gaze soft. 

McCree shrugs on his shirt and does up the buttons slowly. His fingers feel clumsy and numb. “I’m managin’ as well as a man can when he’s coughing shit up all the time.”

“I am glad that your illness isn’t stopping you, but that isn’t what I meant.”

McCree looks at the floor. A button slips from his grip; he swears and tries it again. 

“Going about as well as it can,” he says eventually. 

Angela sits on the edge of the table beside him. The paper crinkles as she does. 

“I know this can’t be easy for you,” she says. 

“It’s not.” McCree finally finishes buttoning his shirt, and reaches next for his serape. “And, you know--it was bad enough, before all this.” He sighs heavily and switches to looking up at the ceiling. Tears burn threateningly in his eyes, but he forces them back. “I can’t tell him, either.”

“Have you not tried?”

“You know I haven’t.”

“It would be the best way, you know.”

“I can’t, Angie. I just--I can’t. You’ve never done this. You don’t get it.”

“Then tell me.” Angela brushes her hand against his. “I’m not just your doctor, Jesse. I’m your friend.”

McCree starts wrapping his serape around his shoulders, but stops halfway through. “Can you imagine?” he asks. “I didn’t tell him before because--well. God. Who would want me, right? I’m still fucked up from what I did. I’m not good at this stuff. And Hanzo . . . I can’t read him half the time, but I know he can’t care about me that way. I don’t expect him to. And if I told him, that I’m dyin’ because he doesn’t love me? Can you imagine what that would do to him? I can’t put that kind of guilt on him, Angie, I just can’t.”

Angela leans her shoulder up against his. She says nothing for a minute, though she looks thoughtful. 

“You know the other option is the surgery,” she says carefully. “I know you didn’t want it before, but I really must encourage you to do it, if the other option is not possible.”

“No. I can’t. I’m sorry, but I--he means too much to me. Bein’ in love with him’s bad enough. But if I got it done, and I had to work every day with him knowin’ that I  _ used _ to love him and physically can’t do it anymore--that would be so much worse.”

 

\--

 

“ _ McCree, where are you _ ?” Mei calls, a note of fear in her voice. She is somewhere further back with most of the others, waiting with the payload--or, at least, that’s where she was when McCree left them.

McCree hurls a flashbang at his pursuers and takes them out with a quick fanning of the hammer. “Not real sure,” he replies. “They kinda chased me off. I’m on my way back, just hold on.”

“ _ Ha! We are more than capable of holding! _ ” Reinhardt bellows. McCree can almost hear him without the comm. “ _ It is you who should be careful! _ ”

“ _ We could really use the backup _ ,” Lena adds. “ _ They’ve got their drones everywhere. _ ”

“Doin’ my best.”

“ _ I am on my way back _ ,” adds Hanzo. McCree can see the archer’s silhouette on a nearby rooftop, bow drawn, arrows flying. As McCree runs past, Hanzo slides down to join him, keeping up easily. McCree allows himself a brief moment to appreciate the view as Hanzo drops down, before refocusing his attention on the danger around them. 

There isn’t another soul in sight as they sprint down the narrow streets, which only serves to make McCree more nervous. Something’s waiting for them, somewhere. He keeps Peacekeeper at the ready and his flashbangs within reach, while every nerve in his body sings with alertness.

There is a clatter on the ground beside them. From the corner of his eye, he sees a gray canister with a rapidly-flashing red light. He opens his mouth to warn Hanzo, but doesn’t get a word out before Hanzo’s body crashes into his. He hits the ground on his back a split second before the grenade explodes, destroying the cobblestone underneath and denting the walls on either side of the alley. Dust and gravel rains down over them.

Chest spasming, his breath knocked out of him, it takes McCree a moment to reorient himself. Hanzo’s body is warm and heavy on top of him, and despite the situation, McCree can’t help but enjoy it a bit.

Hanzo pushes himself up onto his arms and looks down at him with genuine, sweet worry--something besides the simple concern for a comrade. “Are you alright?” he asks softly. 

“Y-yeah. Perfect.” McCree peers past Hanzo to look at the destroyed section of the alley, ignoring the warm feeling swelling in his chest. “Got us out of there just in time, partner.”

“Good. My apologies for . . . this.” Hanzo gestures at the lack of space between them as he sits back on his heels. 

“Don’t gotta apologize for saving my life,” McCree tries to say, but his throat itches and spasms and interrupts him on the last word with a hacking cough. Hanzo sits back in alarm as McCree twists to the side, coughing hard, unable to stop. Flowers come up in handfuls, too many for him to hide, slipping between his fingers and drifting to the cool cobblestone underneath. 

When he finally finishes, McCree doesn’t dare look at Hanzo for a long minute. He clenches his fist around the flowers, though he’s too late to hide them. 

“McCree,” Hanzo says, choked. “Is that--”

“Don’t,” McCree interrupts, drawing his shoulders up in shame. “Don’t--don’t worry about that right now. I’m fine. We gotta go.”

“But you are--”

“I’m fine,” McCree repeats sharply. He gets to his feet, dusts himself off, and straightens his hat: a show of normalcy, a small something that he can control. “Let’s get goin’. They’re waitin’ on us.”

Hanzo looks like he wants to say more, but he is mercifully silent, and they are able to make their way back to the team together. 

On the shuttle back, Hanzo comes to sit beside him, head bowed. “So,” he begins, voice pitched low to avoid being overheard. McCree appreciates the discretion, even though he doesn’t want to talk about this at all. “You are more sick than I realized.”

McCree rubs his hand down his face. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“How long?”

“About two weeks now.”

“Do the others know?”

“A few.”

Hanzo nods once. McCree isn’t sure how to interpret that. 

“I am sorry,” Hanzo offers after a long moment. “That is terrible news. Do you know what you are going to do?”

“Not yet.” McCree takes off his hat and runs his hand through his hair. He wants a cigarillo more than anything right now, but nobody on the shuttle would be happy if he did. “I’m kinda leanin’ away from the surgery, though.”

Hanzo’s brow knits. “Why?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Why wouldn’t you want to undergo a treatment that would save your life? If the other option is not available?”

“Because,” McCree says with an agitated sigh, “those feelings are part of me, alright? It’s  not so easy to just cut somethin’ out like that, especially when it’s about someone that means a lot to you. You can’t just--expect me to be okay with rippin’ that out.”

“Even when it is your life on the line?”

“Well, it’s not like you’d know, would you?”

Hanzo visibly jerks. His expression changes quickly from careful worry to sharp anger, and McCree realizes he’s crossed a line.

“No, wait, I’m sorry,” he says before Hanzo can say anything. “That was shitty. Sorry.” Hanzo’s shoulders relax by a fraction. “But look, Hanzo, it’s not that easy. I wish it was, but it’s not.”

Hanzo frowns deeply, unconvinced. “Is there nothing I can say to change your mind?”

_ Fall desperately in love with me,  _ McCree thinks.

“No,” he says instead. “This is my choice, Hanzo. I can’t--I don't think that’s something I can do.”

“Not even for your friends? Your teammates? The people who care for you?”

McCree bows his head, at a loss. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t think I can do it. It’s just not that simple.”

Hanzo says nothing else. After a long moment, he reaches over and grips McCree’s shoulder, squeezing once.

“Alright,” he says. “I hope that you will change your mind, but I will be here for you either way.”

McCree’s chest hurts in a way that has nothing to do with his lungs. He should say it, blurt  _ You’re the one I’m in love with _ , but he’s still too cowardly to do it. 

Hanzo takes back his hand, and the warmth of his touch remains for the entire flight home. 

 

\--

 

The next day, while at dinner with everyone who is still on-base, McCree gets to his feet halfway through and waits. The chatter around the table continues on for a few more moments, but slowly thins as everyone gradually realizes that he wants their attention. 

“I gotta say somethin’ that I’ve been holdin’ onto awhile,” McCree says. He watches the worry unfold on everyone’s faces. 

“Are you alright, luv?” Lena asks. “Is something wrong?”

“Yeah. Quite a bit. And I don’t want you all to make a big fuss about it, because it’s not gonna change anything.” McCree looks down at the table a moment, steeling himself, rapping his knuckles lightly against the surface. Beside him, Angela’s eyes are wide with concern, but otherwise give no indication whether she approves or not. Hanzo’s face is stony, lips pressed into a thin line. 

McCree swallows hard, takes a deep breath, and says, “A few weeks ago, I found out I’ve got Hanahaki.”

The reaction is immediate. There’s a myriad of gasps and shouts, a few hands clamped over mouths in shock. He hears Lucio say a started “holy  _ shit _ ” and a soft “oh my god” from Mei.

“Now listen,” McCree continues, before everyone can start talking at him, “like I said, I don’t want you all makin’ a big deal of this. I’m--I doubt I’m gonna make it through it, though. I don’t want the surgery, and I don’t want you all tryin’ to talk me into it.”

He taps his knuckles on the table again and waits. Nobody says anything else, but their eyes are still on him. With an awkward nod, he sits and returns to his dinner, though his appetite is long gone. 

Very slowly, conversation resumes around him, although it is all quiet and stilted, everyone’s minds clearly on the news they just received. When they finally begin to disperse, they all pass by McCree’s chair first. Reinhardt pats him on the shoulder and says, “I am sorry, my friend.” Lucio pats him on the back in passing, and Hana, close behind, gives him an apologetic look. McCree resolutely keeps his eyes on his food. He expects he’ll be fielding a hundred of conversations in the next few days, all of which he would rather avoid.

When he stands to leave, Mei approaches him. Her eyes are shiny with tears. She starts to speak, but then throws herself at him and hugs him tightly, instead. 

“I’m so sorry,” she mumbles into his shirt. “You deserve to be happy.”

McCree swallows hard. He can’t find a response. He wraps his arms around Mei and hugs her back and wishes fate felt as sweet towards him as she did. 

 

\--

 

Winston takes him off of the missions roster for fear of his health. McCree bullies his way back on, refusing to be benched. 

“It ain’t that bad,” he argues. “I can still hold a gun. Don’t make me sit here and rot.” Then he threatens to start sneaking onto the shuttles if he doesn’t get assigned anywhere, and Winston finally relents with great reluctance. 

“You can’t keep going like this,” Winston warns. His voice is stern, but his eyes are soft with concern. “I’m sure Dr. Ziegler has talked to you about being treated.”

“I ain’t doin’ it. Don’t try to make me.”

“Is it worth this?”

“I’m not lettin’ her cut this out of me. I don’t care. If this is how my life’s supposed to go, then fine. In the meantime, I’m not gonna sit around and wait for it to kill me.”

Winston pushes around some papers on the desk. “None of us like seeing you like this,” he says quietly. “You’re our friend, McCree, not just an agent. Some of us have known you for a long time.”

McCree’s anger dissipates. He slouches, rubs a hand down his face, and takes a deep breath. “I know,” he says. “I know. But I can’t just . . . take it away.”

“Do you think whoever it is would be okay with you doing this?”

“I already know he’s not, but it ain’t his choice. None of it is, really.” McCree looks at Winston, then past him at the wall. “It’s fine. He can’t make himself care about me that way, and I can’t make myself  _ not _ . This is nobody’s fault but mine.”

 

\--

 

McCree skips dinner again and takes himself and a bottle of Jack out to the cliffs, where he’s all but guaranteed to be left alone. It’s probably not wise to put himself high up without a safer way back down, but he doesn’t care much. He sips from the bottle, too listless to bother with a glass, and watches the sun set over the Mediterranean. 

He hates this. He hates being in love. He hates that daring to love someone has gotten him here. He hates that he’s an idiot who can’t control his own feelings, who let himself get so deep that now he can’t escape.

Even worse, he’s so sentimental that he can’t even get a simple surgery that would save his life, because the thought of not having those feelings at all hurts worse than anything else possibly can. 

He is alone for half an hour before he hears the soft crunch of booted feet on stone behind him. Hanzo approaches quietly and stands at his side.

“May I join you?” Hanzo asks.

“Don’t think I’m good company right now.” McCree wiggles the bottle of whiskey in his hand.

“No, but you seem like you could use the company, nonetheless.” Hanzo sits, cross-legged. His knee bumps against McCree’s briefly. “You missed dinner again. I would not have been worried, but Athena said you were heading out here.”

“Worried I’d fall to my death?”

“Among other things.”

McCree offers the bottle to Hanzo, who politely declines with a raised hand. McCree shrugs and takes another drink for himself.

“Is this the best way to handle things?” Hanzo asks, tone neutral.

“S’not like it matters, does it?”

“Perhaps not.”

McCree pulls out a cigarillo, lights it with his trusty ancient lighter, and brings it to his lips. He’s approaching the pinnacle of pathetic, he thinks--drinking and smoking out in the open, not entirely sure he would mind falling off the cliff, alone except for a man he’s desperately in love with. 

“I do not suppose,” Hanzo begins slowly, “that I might be able to convince you this time to--”

“God, Hanzo, please,” McCree says with a weary sigh. “I don’t want to talk about that shit right now. Please, anything but that.”

Hanzo shuts his mouth with a click. He appears to spend a moment deliberating, searching for a safe topic, before he says, “I spoke with Genji today.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s been out for a few days in London, but he gave me an update today. He requested to be allowed to look into some omnic-related concerns, it seems.”

McCree listens halfheartedly to Hanzo’s story, though he only absorbs every other word at best. He likes the sound of Hanzo’s low, gravelly voice beside him, lifting and dropping with the natural cadence of his speech. McCree suspects Hanzo started learning English by age three, but the way he speaks is still a hair unnatural, a little more formal than most. Whether that’s actually a language thing or just an intellectual one, McCree can’t guess, but he likes it.

He likes everything about Hanzo. That’s why he’s here in the first place.

McCree’s drunk. He’s too drunk, the kind of drunk where he makes stupid decisions that he knows he’ll regret. But it’s not like he has anything left to lose now, does he? Shit, he likes Hanzo--loves him so much it’s literally killing him, in fact--and he’s spent months and months pretending he doesn’t. What does it matter now? He’ll probably be dead this time next week, so if he does something stupid now, he won’t have to deal with it for long.

He leans in close to Hanzo, until his chest brushes against Hanzo’s shoulder. Hanzo looks up, startled, but he doesn’t move away. His dark eyes are somehow even darker in the dim lighting, black as a fine cup of coffee and highlighted by the pale light of the moon.

“What?” he asks.

McCree licks his lips. He can’t speak. Hanzo’s gaze drops lower, sticking somewhere around the region of McCree’s mouth. His lips part around a breath. His head tilts up, just slightly: just enough. McCree dips down to meet him for a gentle kiss.

A part of him expects Hanzo to push him away, to shout or hit him, but none of that comes. Instead, Hanzo’s lips are soft under his, sweet and responsive and so much more perfect than anything McCree’s imagination could ever come up with. His head is spinning and he doesn’t know if it’s from the whiskey or from this, but it doesn’t matter, as long as he gets to have this.

Then McCree has to jerk away to cough, and once he starts, he can’t seem to stop. It feels like hours before his chest stops spasming, and when he finishes, he tastes the tang of iron on his tongue. He looks down at his hands, and there are flecks of crimson spattered on the blue flowers.

“Shit,” he mutters.

Hanzo is wide-eyed, staring down at the bloody petals. When he finally looks up at McCree, his gaze is distant, almost haunted.

“I--” he starts, stops. He backs away, then starts to get to his feet. “I am sorry. I should not have--”

“No, no, you absolutely  _ should, _ ” McCree interrupts. He drops the flowers, wipes his hands on his jeans, and reaches for Hanzo, but Hanzo pulls away before he can touch. 

“I must go.” 

“Hanzo, please don’t--”

“Do not,” Hanzo snaps, and McCree is surprised by the sudden flare of anger he feels in his chest, burning hot and pulling tight around his sternum.  _ He’s _ the one who’s dying over this entire mess, who just got a taste of the very thing he craves and could save his life, and he’s the one being told to stop?

“You can’t just do that and then walk off,” he growls, standing up beside Hanzo. “That ain’t goddamn fair.”

Hanzo whirls on him, expression thunderous. “ _ I _ am being unfair?” he snarls. “You accuse me of being unfair when you who started it? When  _ you _ are the one who is so in love with someone else that you are sick from it, but still--”

He cuts off, gritting his teeth, and looks away. McCree is alarmed to see he almost looks close to tears.

“I will not,” Hanzo says, every word deliberate and cold, “be your second choice.”

McCree’s stomach drops somewhere in the vicinity of his boots, snuffing out his anger. “What?” he asks. “That ain’t--”

“I will not be something you have on the side,” Hanzo interrupts viciously. “I will not be something you have while you wait to die. Surely even you can understand how  _ unfair _ that is.”

“That isn’t it.”

“Then what, McCree? Tell me why I should allow this continue, why I should--”

“Because it’s you.”

This makes Hanzo snap his gaze back to meet McCree’s. “What?”

McCree swallows hard. “It’s you. I ain’t in love with someone else. Just--just you.”

Hanzo opens his mouth as though to speak, but no words come out. He takes a step back, then another, then abruptly turns away and walks away. His long, hurried strides take him down the cliff and out of sight immediately. 

McCree stays where he is for a long time. The sea breeze chills his skin, although he barely feels it. His stomach churns with anger and cold, horrible sadness.

He clambers down from the cliffs, eventually, stumbling more than once but catching himself again. He tries to make his way to the dorms, but takes a wrong turn and ends up in one of the shuttle hangars, which is good enough. It’s dark and empty and he’s all alone, which is all he needs.

“Goddammit,” he says to no one, gripping the bottle of whiskey tight. 

“God _ dammit! _ ” he roars again, and he turns and hurls the bottle at the nearest wall. It shatters instantly, raining down shards of copper-colored glass. The whiskey splashes all over the wall and drips down in dark rivulets, pooling on the floor in small, lonely puddles. McCree slouches against a wall behind him and slides down until he, too, hits the floor, small and lonely. Tears burn hot in his eyes and streak down his cheeks before he can even try to stop them. He tries to choke back the sob but it escapes, followed by another, until he is actively crying and cannot stop. He draws his arms up over his head, pulls his knees to his chest, and sobs until his body simply has no energy left. 

He must fall asleep, because the next thing he knows is a hand on his shoulder shaking him awake. He looks up into Genji’s scarred, worried face.

“You need to go to bed, McCree,” he says. He does not comment on the time of night, or the fact that McCree is curled up in a hangar alone, or the whiskey drying on the far wall amongst a sea of broken glass. McCree has never been more grateful for someone’s silence.

Genji helps him to bed. McCree doesn’t even kick off his boots or remove his hat, and falls immediately into a dreamless, dead sleep.

 

\--

 

The next morning, Hanzo is nowhere to be found. He is not at breakfast, nor at training. Angela mentions that he wasn’t feeling well, but doesn’t elaborate, and cites patient confidentiality when McCree tries to ask. Her expression is pitying, and McCree can’t bear to talk to her any longer.

McCree picks at his breakfast and fails to protect the objective point during training sims. He blames his hangover, but knows deep down that the real reason is Hanzo. 

It always is, now.

In the evening, McCree goes out to the shooting range to try to work out some of the day’s pent-up stress. An hour or two in the range by himself has never failed to help him: narrowing his focus to a distant target, the heavy weight of Peacekeeper in his hand, the ring of the gunshots blotting out his thoughts, all of it combined makes for the perfect distraction. 

Luck is not with him tonight, though, because as the door to his favorite range slides open, he catches sight of Hanzo in the nearest lane, bow raised and an arrow notched. Hanzo releases the arrow and lifts his head as McCree enters. McCree’s stomach plummets down to his boots.

“Hello,” Hanzo offers after a moment of strained silence.

“Howdy,” McCree replies shortly. He starts to walk past, determined to get his shooting done without making a scene, but Hanzo’s hand comes down on his shoulder as he tries to move by.

“Wait, please,” Hanzo says. “I am glad I found you. I want to talk to you about last night.”

McCree freezes. “No,” he says, and forces his muscle to unlock to shrug out of Hanzo’s grip.

“No?”

“No. We’re not talkin’ about that again.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It is important.”

“And I said I don’t wanna talk about it!” McCree repeats angrily, swatting away Hanzo’s hand when it reaches for him again. 

Hanzo frowns as though affronted. “Why do you not want to discuss this?” he asks. “I am trying to--”  
“To what, Hanzo?” McCree snaps, and suddenly all of his rationality vanishes like a wisp of smoke. He whirls around to face Hanzo, welcoming the rage he can feel building up--anything to replace the despair that would otherwise overwhelm him. “You just wanna tell me how you’re _not_ in love with me? Make damn sure that whatever it was last night didn’t really mean anything to you even though it did to me? Because I already got that one figured out when you walked out with saying anything, thanks.”

“I did not--”

“Or do you wanna try to tell me to get the surgery again, ‘cause there isn’t a chance in hell you’re ever gonna feel like that for me and you can’t  _ bear _ to see me die over it?” McCree interrupts viciously. “Well, guess what, I already had that one figured out, too, but it’s not your damn business what I do. Whether you like it or not, you fuckin’ matter to me, so I’m not just gonna cut it all out! I’m sorry it’s a  _ burden _ to you, but it’s not like I can help it!”

Now Hanzo is visibly stunned. His mouth works to form words, but no sound comes forth. McCree continues on, unable to stop now that he’s begun. “I’m sorry that it came out like this, but I can’t take it back and I’m not gonna. And I don’t feel like standin’ here while you try to talk about it like you know better than I do, ‘cause for once, you don’t have a goddamn clue.”

“I did not mean . . .” Hanzo starts, but he does not finish the thought. His eyebrows draw together, wrinkling his brow with confusion and heartbreaking sadness. McCree has to look away, shame tempering his anger.

“Leave me alone, Hanzo,” he says, gritting his teeth, trying not to sound like he’s begging. “Have some mercy and just leave me alone.”

He pushes past Hanzo, who does not resist, and strides out of the range as quickly as his legs will take him. 

He ends up walking for almost two hours, through the base and the city of Gibraltar itself, and feels no better when he finally returns. Hanzo is nowhere to be seen again, and McCree hates himself more than he previously thought possible. 

 

\--

 

The next day, McCree takes a bullet for Hanzo. 

He doesn’t recall the thought process leading to it, in the end. He sees the sniper on the roof--her name was Widowmaker, according to Winston, which was frighteningly appropriate--and Hanzo on the ground, with his back turned to her as he fires arrows at another target. McCree hadn’t thought, he had just moved, hurling himself into the fray. He grabbed Hanzo by the shirtsleeves, trying to push them both out of the way, but he was a fraction too slow.

The bullet pierces the back of his left shoulder. Hot, screaming pain bursts from the point, tearing through his shoulder, radiating out into his back. He cries out, and then he is on the ground without any recollection of how he arrived there. He twists to grip at the wound, and hot blood soaks through his glove and drips down his wrist. 

“Fuck,” he hears himself whimper, though it sounds distant, somehow not his own voice. “Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ . . .”

“McCree!” shouts Hanzo somewhere nearby. Someone grabs him under the arms and drags him backwards; he tries to push up on his feet to aid the process, but doesn’t end up doing much. Hanzo continues as they move, “Mercy, McCree is down, we need medical assistance  _ immediately _ \--”

McCree drops back down to the ground very gently in a cool, shaded area. He gives a tiny groan of relief, though the pain is no less horrible. 

“McCree,” Hanzo says again. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”

With a great amount of effort, McCree does as asked. He finds himself peering up into Hanzo’s terrified expression. Inexplicably, he smiles.

“Help is on the way,” Hanzo continues. “Are you alright?”

“Got a bullet in me, so I’m gonna say no to that.”

“If you are going to be sarcastic, then do not say anything at all,” Hanzo growls. “Conserve your energy.”

McCree chuckles dryly. His blood pools underneath him, soaking into his shirt and serape. “You’re worried about me,” he says, and coughs.

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I am.” Hanzo twists and looks up, presumably scanning for Mercy around them. “Now be quiet. Stay awake.”

McCree starts to say something else, damn the consequences, but then there is the familiar tickle in his throat. Every muscle in his body spasms with the sudden force of the full-body cough, and as he throws himself onto his side, he can already see the blood-smeared flower petals falling from his mouth. He tries to stop, but every cough sends pain shooting through his body from the bullet, sharp and vicious. The pain is so intense that he thinks he’ll black out with every hack, but his body is not merciful enough to grant him unconsciousness.

When he is finally done, he collapses, too weak to hold himself up any longer. His vision swims, but he can see, even through half-lidded eyes, the blood spattered on the ground with the hydrangeas. He teeters on the edge of consciousness, and he thinks he wouldn’t mind falling asleep and staying that way.

“McCree!” Hanzo says again, shaking him by his uninjured shoulder. He kneels down to eye-level. “McCree, say something. You need to stay awake.”

McCree smiles, inexplicably. “S’sweet how worried you are,” he says, hearing himself slur.

“Shut up and hold on, Mercy is almost here--”

“M’real glad to have you,” McCree interrupts. “Even if--if y’don’t like me that way.”

“What are you talking about?”

“S’alright,” McCree continues. He clumsily lifts his hand and reaches out, touching Hanzo’s face with the tips of his fingers. The movement sharpens the pain again, but he’s near enough to unconsciousness that he does not feel it quite so much. “Glad it’s you. Here. With me. Get to see your face . . .”

Hanzo says something else, frantic, but McCree passes out before he can parse what it was.

 

\--

 

McCree wakes to an empty medbay.

The bay is dark, except for a light in the corner that he’s pretty sure is Angela’s office. He’s propped up in a bed and has a cannula in his nose, which itches and shifts when he turns his head. There’s a twinge in the back of his left shoulder, but not nearly as much pain as he would expect A small biotic emitter is taped to the left side of his chest, glowing softly with low golden light, which likely explains the lack of pain. 

He takes a deep breath, testing, and immediately erupts into a coughing fit that sends spasms of pain through his shoulder and back. While he’s doubled over, he hears the clack of short heels on tile, and the light flickers on overhead.

“McCree?” Angela murmurs. A hand touches his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

When the coughs finally subside, McCree lifts his head. Angela offers him a small trash bin, and he dumps the flower petals without looking at them. 

“Been better,” he mutters. 

“Understandable.”

Angela sets down the bin and moves about the bed, checking McCree’s vitals. “Do you remember what happened?” she asks. 

“A little. Think that Widow lady got me?” A thought occurs, and he snaps his head up. “Is Hanzo--”

“Hanzo is fine, thanks to you,” Angela says soothingly. “He got you to safety until I arrived. He is well.”

“And has he . . .” McCree coughs lightly, swallows down the taste of blood. “Has he come by?”

The look on Angela’s face is all the answer he needs. He turns away so he doesn’t have to see her pitying expression. 

“In any case,” she continues, leaving fleeting touches as she adjusts the biotic emitter, the blankets, an IV, “If it had just been the bullet, I might be able to let you leave in a few days, but since your Hanahaki is advanced and you’re injured . . . I think I’ll need you to stay here, McCree.”

McCree doesn’t even have the energy to argue.

 

\--

 

McCree is exhausted down to his bones. His throat is raw and his body aches from coughing. Every moment tugs on the wound in his shoulder and makes him want to claw the flesh off just to make it stop hurting. Despite it all, he drags himself out of bed, out of the medbay, and to the cliffside for a smoke and a few minutes alone. He’s been stuck in bed the last two days, waiting for one thing or the other to get him, and he’s going to lose his mind. 

Angela’s stopped yelling at him for smoking, he’s noticed. She hasn’t once mentioned it since the three-week mark on his Hanahaki--not since he made it clear he wouldn’t have the surgery. It hadn’t occurred to him before, but now he knows it’s because it can’t possibly kill him any faster, and Angela is more merciful than to take away a dying man’s vices. 

Ten minutes in, he hears footsteps behind him. He sighs and says, “Can’t a man get a moment to himself?”

“My apologies,” says Hanzo’s voice, and a pang of hurt shoots through McCree’s chest. “I can go, if you would prefer. I went to the med bay, but Dr. Ziegler said you had left.”

McCree’s instinct is to tell him to fuck off. Instead, he says, “Whatever you want.”

Hanzo sits beside him on the cliffside, legs tucked underneath him, hands on his knees, back and shoulders uncomfortably rigid. 

After a long, silent moment, Hanzo says, “I am sorry.”

McCree glances at him, but doesn’t answer. He takes a deep drag of his cigarillo and focuses on the familiar burn of smoke in his mouth and throat, but now it takes like bitter ashes, comforting only for that habit of it. With a disgusted noise, he stubs out the short remainder of the cigarillo and flicks it over the edge into the water. 

“I didn’t know,” Hanzo continues. 

“Didn’t know what?”

“That it was me. That it was . . . because of me. Until the other night.” Hanzo swallows hard, dropping his gaze to his hands. “I did not--I did not think you could possibly care for me so much.”

McCree laughs once, ruefully. “Who else would it have been?”

“I did not know. Anyone who was not me.  Someone from the old Overwatch, perhaps. You are close with most of the team. You had more reason to care for them than for me.”

“That doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

“It made more sense than the alternative.”

McCree doesn’t have an argument for this, so he says nothing. 

Hanzo takes a deep breath, but he doesn’t say anything, either. Instead, he digs around in his pocket until he finds his phone.

“Seriously?” McCree asks, but Hanzo ignores him for several seconds as he taps away. Then he turns the phone’s screen toward McCree. On the screen is a photo of flower petals: long, thin, golden petals, piled in someone’s--Hanzo’s--hand. 

McCree’s heart thumps against his ribs. He takes the phone to look more closely at the picture. “What is this?” he asks, disbelieving.

“I am sure you can guess.”

“This is--this is you. You’re sick?”

“I was. Briefly. The photo is from about one week ago, a few days before you told me.” Hanzo takes his phone back and clutches it between both hands, as though it will save him from whatever he has to say next. “I took the photo so I could do some research.”

“And?”

“Black-eyed Susans. Native to various parts of the United States, apparently, including the Southwest.”

McCree’s heartbeat increases still, until he’s sure his heart will simply break out of his chest. “And it went away?”

“Yes.” Hanzo puts away his phone, but continues to look at his hands, fidgeting. “The night you told me, the flowers stopped. I confirmed it with Dr. Ziegler later.”

The realization hits McCree like a punch to the gut, stealing his breath. “They were for me,” he says, strangled. “Because you--”

“Because I care for you. Far too much. Yes.”

“Then why did you leave?” McCree hates how it comes out, desperate and weak, but he has to know. “That night, I  _ told _ you, but you still left.”

“It was incredibly selfish, I know. But I tried to discuss it with you the next day, but . . . “ 

“You can’t blame me, given the circumstances.”

Hanzo hunches his shoulders, ashamed. “I--I do not know why I left. I was . . . afraid, I suppose. For what this meant for me. For us. I had not even decided how I would handle my own illness yet. And up until then, I had thought you wanted someone else. I could not comprehend that it was actually me.”

“Never,” McCree says. “I’ve never wanted someone like this before you.”

A faint smile appears on Hanzo’s face for the briefest of seconds. McCree suddenly cannot stand to have an inch of distance between them, and throws his arms around Hanzo to drag him into the tightest embrace he can. He presses his face against Hanzo’s hair, gripping the back of his head to pull him against his shoulder, and breathes.

Slowly, he feels Hanzo’s arms wrap around his back. Hanzo presses his face against the side of his neck, and stays there. 

“I’m in love with you,” McCree murmurs. “Absolutely, one-hundred-percent head-over-heels for you. You’re the only one who could make me so damn infatuated that I about die from it. You understand?”

Hanzo’s hands tighten in the back of his shirt. “Yes,” he says roughly. “I do now.”

A moment passes silently, each of them enjoying the much-needed closeness. Then Hanzo says, “And I . . . feel the same. For you.”

It’s not quite a declaration of love by normal standards, but for Hanzo, it’s immense. McCree’s chest feels light and full, and he can’t tell if his lungs are clearing or if it’s just the sheer happiness he’s feeling. He’s sure he’s grinning like an idiot, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

He pushes Hanzo back by his shoulders until they can meet each other’s gaze. Hanzo looks concerned at first, but then he smiles. His eyes are coal-dark in the dim evening light, soft with emotion. He releases his hold on McCree to take his face between both hands instead, then draws him down into a kiss. 

Once McCree gets over the initial shock, he kisses back with fervor. Hanzo tries to back away, like he had only intended the kiss to be a short thing, but McCree follows him and catches his mouth again. He can’t stop until his smile breaks into a stupid grin, and even then he tries to kiss Hanzo again until Hanzo finally laughs and pushes him back.

“You ridiculous man,” Hanzo says with a fond smile. 

“Can you blame me? Shit, I thought I was gonna die and instead I get you.” McCree says. A moment later, just because he can, he adds, “God, I love you.”

Hanzo’s face flushes red, making McCree laugh again. “Really? That’s what makes you embarrassed?” he asks as Hanzo hides his face in the crook of McCree’s neck. “You’d better get used to it, ‘cause I’m gonna say it all the time.”

“Shut up.”

McCree chuckles and holds him close, for the novelty of having Hanzo in his arms. 

They sit that way for a little while, no noise but the crash of the sea on the cliffs far below and the gentle whistle of the breeze. McCree can’t bring himself to let go for almost a minute, afraid that if he does, he’ll die anyway from the sheer want. But finally, he manages to loosen his grip, and sits back to meet Hanzo’s gaze.

“Hey,” he says. “How do you feel about goin’ out?”

 

\--

 

They go for dinner and it is simultaneously the best and worst evening McCree has ever had. 

They find a small Italian place in the middle of Gibraltar that is open late and which pours wine very generously. Once the initial high of the last hour has worn off, McCree and Hanzo both find themselves stumbling over the awkwardness of a first date, despite their already-considerable feelings for each other. McCree can’t think of anything to say. Hanzo almost knocks a glass of white wine into his lasagna. They bump feet under the table and neither can tell if it was intentional. 

Finally, after a glass and a half of wine and most of his meal, McCree gathers up the courage to ask, “So . . . are you okay with this?”

“With dinner? It is fine.”

“Not with dinner. With this. Us.” McCree takes another swallow of wine, then sets everything down so he can look Hanzo in the eye without distraction. “I know we did the whole . . . ‘we nearly died bein’ in love with each other’ thing. But that doesn’t really cover what we wanna do from this point on.”

Hanzo sets down his fork. “I assumed it would be a relationship,” he says to his plate. “That seems like the most logical step forward. Was I mistaken?”

“No! No. Not at all,” McCree is quick to say. He reaches across the table to rest his hand on Hanzo’s reassuring. “After everything that’s happened, I want to be real clear on everything, is all. But I want that too. Promise.”

Hanzo gives him a sweet, shy smile. After that, the rest of dinner goes by without a hitch.

 

\--

 

They both end up drinking just a bit too much wine to safely drive back. McCree laughs as he fumbles to set the car’s autopilot, and Hanzo tries to help him but only ends up impeding McCree’s efforts. It takes a couple of giggle-filled minutes to get it going, but finally the car is off and speeding back to the Watchpoint. 

When they arrive, McCree turns to say something to Hanzo, but is interrupted by Hanzo gripping his shoulders and pulling him into a deep kiss. Not about to turn that away, McCree melts into it immediately, leaning over the console between the seats to press into Hanzo’s space. 

“Will you stay with me tonight?” Hanzo asks when he breaks away, stroking a hand down McCree’s front.

“You sure? Not that I’m sayin’ no, but . . .”

“I am quite certain.” Hanzo’s fingers pluck at the hem of McCree’s shirt. “Perhaps more certain than anything else in my life.”

McCree’s breath leaves him all at once. “Lead the way,” he says, earning himself a wicked grin from Hanzo that sends a spark down his spine and straight to his groin. 

The walk back to the dorms is the longest McCree has ever had in his life. It’s a blessed miracle that they don’t run into anyone else on the way. By the time the door to McCree’s dorm slides shut--it was closer than Hanzo’s--McCree feels ready to burst with anticipation. McCree pushes Hanzo back against the wall by the door, pressing them together from shoulder to knee. Hanzo’s arms wrap around his middle, one hand snaking up the back of his shirt and pressing flat against his back, making him shiver.

“You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this,” McCree breathes between heated kisses, reaching for the hem of the tight cotton t-shirt that’s slowly been driving him insane all evening. 

“I can make a guess,” Hanzo says. He slides his hands across McCree’s sides and belly as he moves to undo the buttons of his shirt. “If it is anywhere near as often as I have thought of it.”

“Goddamn,” McCree says. He shrugs out of his flannel overshirt as soon as the last button is done, then moves back to pull Hanzo’s shirt up and off and discards it somewhere behind him. Hanzo gives a half-hearted protest, but laughs, too.

They eventually hit the bed in a giggly pile of limbs, McCree still stuck with his arms in his undershirt while Hanzo tries to help him out of it. Hanzo finally manages to grab hold of the hem and pulls it straight up, over McCree’s head and arms, and when he looks down at McCree underneath him, there’s just a hint of awe in his expression. 

“What?” McCree asks, swallowing down another unnecessary giggle.

“Nothing,” Hanzo replies, and bends down to catch McCree’s mouth with his own again. 

Their hands collide repeatedly as they each try to remove their own, and then each other’s, jeans, and neither wants to move away long enough to actually pull everything off. Finally, Hanzo sits back to tug McCree’s pants off over his ankles, and sheds his own, and then they are finally skin-to-skin without anything to interrupt. McCree drinks in the sight of Hanzo before him. Every line of Hanzo’s body seems like it was carved into being, all sharp angles and well-built muscle. When he meets Hanzo’s gaze again, he is surprised to see that Hanzo looks almost shy under the scrutiny.

“Goddamn,” McCree says again, which makes Hanzo kiss him to shut him up. McCree pushes on his shoulders until he can rearrange them, until he has Hanzo splayed out beneath him. “Let me,” he says, when Hanzo tries to sit up and reach for him. 

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing you’ll object to, I’m sure,” McCree replies with a cheeky grin. He brushes his lips down Hanzo’s chest, along the faint trail of hair on his belly and against the crest of his hip, and Hanzo takes a sharp breath as he finally comprehends. 

It’s been a good while since McCree’s done this, but he always fancied himself pretty decent with his mouth, and it’s an easy skill to recover. He starts out slow, teasing licks and light suction, and smiles when he hears an approving sigh above him. 

“Good?” he pauses to ask, and laughs when Hanzo groans agitatedly.

“Don’t  _ stop _ ,” Hanzo complains. He reaches down and threads a hand through McCree’s hair, gently but insistently nudging him to continue. McCree is more than happy to comply. He settles in more comfortably, hooking Hanzo’s thighs over his shoulders, grazing his fingernails along Hanzo’s skin as he increases his pace. The position causes a twinge in his shoulder, but it is easily ignored.

Hanzo’s breathing turns sharp quickly, edged with tiny moans as his grip tightens in McCree’s hair, thighs and belly trembling in the corner of McCree’s eye. McCree himself is aching, unable to stop himself from rutting lightly against the sheets, desperate for contact even as he tries to focus on Hanzo.

When Hanzo peaks, it is sudden, and seems to surprise even him. He barely gets out a word of morning. McCree pulls back but strokes him through it, watching his hands tighten in the sheets, his lips part around a soft cry, his body bow upward off the bed in pleasure. When he settles again, he spends a long moment catching his breath before he opens his eyes and looks at McCree.

McCree wipes his sticky hand on the sheet beside him. “Good?” he asks again, and presses a kiss to the pale skin of Hanzo’s thigh.

“Very,” Hanzo replies. He reaches down and tugs on McCree’s wrist to pull him upward. “Allow me to return the favor.”

“God, please,” McCree breathes. “Anything’ll do it, you’re the prettiest thing I've ever seen and that just about did it, just touch me--”

McCree climaxes embarrassingly quickly, with a few sure-handed strokes of Hanzo’s hand and the scrape of nails down his back. “Sorry,” he says with his mouth against Hanzo’s shoulder, about both the speed and the mess he’s left on Hanzo’s stomach and chest.

Hanzo huffs a laugh. “You are excused.” 

McCree reaches over the side of the bed and finds his jeans, which he uses to quickly wipe the stickiness from Hanzo’s skin. Then he settles back down, draping himself over Hanzo’s chest and pillowing his head on his shoulder. He expects a protest, but is instead pleasantly surprised to feel Hanzo wrap an arm around him and run his other hand through McCree’s hair. McCree closes his eyes and relaxes into the touch, quickly becoming all but boneless. 

“I believe I owe you an apology, however,” Hanzo says after a long moment.

“Darlin’, you were perfect, not a damn thing to apologize for.”

He chuckles. “Thank you, but that is not what I meant.” He wraps a piece of McCree’s hair around his finger and lets it go, thinking. “I . . . feel like I am at fault, at least in part, for how sick you became. If I had known weeks ago, when it first began, I would have said something, but I was blinded by my own fears.”

“Hanzo, no,” McCree says firmly, lifting his head to meet Hanzo’s gaze. “That’s not your fault. You couldn’t read my mind. I didn’t tell you, so you couldn’t have really known.”

“You have made your interest clear before.”

“Yeah, I’ve flirted at you lots, but that doesn’t always mean somethin’ real.” 

Hanzo still looks unconvinced. “Sweetheart,” McCree says, “it’s alright. Nothin’ we can do about it now. What matters is that we’re here, and I’m gonna get better, and it’s all gonna be just fine.”

Hanzo gives a tiny smile. He reaches up to cup McCree’s face in his hand, so uncharacteristically tender that McCree could weep. He starts to speak, then stops, then starts again. “I am glad that we are here together. You are--”

He pauses, looking faintly embarrassed, but finally finishes, “You are incredibly important to me.”

McCree’s throat suddenly feels tight, but his chest feels fuller and lighter than it has in weeks. Words escape him completely, so he bends down for a kiss before he can embarrass himself. Hanzo, thankfully, does not seem to notice. 

McCree thinks, shortly before he finally dozes off with his head on Hanzo’s shoulder, that everything he’s had to endure up until tonight has been more than worth it.

 

\--

 

“You need to be checked again,” Hanzo says the next morning, his head tucked under McCree’s chin.

“Hm?”

“Your Hanahaki. You should see Dr. Ziegler today to make sure you are getting better.”

McCree sighs deeply, though he knows Hanzo is right. “Yeah, I know,” he says to the ceiling. “Tired of havin’ her poke at me, though.”

“It should be the last time,” Hanzo points out.

“Yeah, yeah.” Hanzo sits up to look down at him. His hair drapes loosely over his shoulders, so enticing that McCree can’t resist stroking a hand through it. Hanzo smiles and leans into the touch, and McCree forgets what they were talking about.

Hanzo reminds him, though, with a gentle reprimanding tap on the shoulder. “Come on,” he urges. “I am sure you are improving, but I would feel better if we knew for sure. We will have all the time we want afterwards.” His hips roll against McCree’s just once, lightly enough to be suggestive but not enough to be satisfying. McCree tries to grab at his hips, interested in seeing where this leads, but then Hanzo is out of bed in a flash and picking up clothes. With a groan, McCree follows suit. 

The moment that McCree steps into the medbay, with Hanzo shortly behind, he is greeted by, “Jesse McCree, where in god’s name have you  _ been?”  _ He doesn’t see where Angela comes from, but she is immediately in front of him, glaring up at him with cold, disappointed anger. 

“Sorry--” he starts to say, but she interrupts him immediately.

“You’re horribly ill  _ and  _ injured, and you walk out of my medbay!” she continues, gesturing back behind her at the bed McCree should have been occupying. “And Athena tells me you’re out having a smoke, and then you just don’t come back? Sometimes I don’t know why I even bother with you!”

“I--”

“Don’t even give me your excuses. I want you back in that bed right now.”

“I told him,” McCree finally gets out.

Angela drops her pointing finger, and her eyebrows raise to her hairline. “What?”

“Hanzo. We--got things sorted last night. I just need one last check-up.” He points over his shoulder at Hanzo as proof.

“Oh,” says Angela. She glances between Hanzo and McCree a couple of times. “Oh, I see. So, your Hanahaki . . .”

“Hopefully on the mend. That’s what I came here for.”

“I see,” Angela says again. She clears her throat, straightens her shoulders, and settles easily back into the demeanor of a professional doctor. “Then you know the drill. Sit down, shirt off, please.”

Angela runs the same check-up routine she has done for the last five weeks. McCree sits impatiently through it all, while Hanzo waits nearby, as close as he is allowed without interfering. McCree fights the urge to reach out and grab Hanzo’s hand, just because he’s allowed. When she’s done, Angela pulls up the holographic read-out on a wrist module and spends a moment considering it.

“Well,” she says, “it definitely looks better than it did the other day. You’re not in the clear yet, though. I want you to keep taking your medication for at least the next week, to make sure this completely goes away.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But I think you’re on the road to recovery. I imagine you’re already feeling much better.” Angela hangs her stethoscope around her neck and smiles softly. “It’s amazing what one person can do sometimes, isn’t it?”

McCree feels Hanzo’s hand wrap around his without looking. “Yeah,” he agrees. “It sure is.”

 


End file.
